


If Only Love Could Cleanse a Multitude of Sins

by crazyparakiss



Series: If Only Love Could... [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Miscarriage, Post Mpreg, Sheriff's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is so final. It takes the good-bye's before they can be said, steals the chance for a last redemption, and leaves the soul heavy with a guilt that cannot be washed off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only Love Could Cleanse a Multitude of Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Final part of my series. Sheriff's POV. Un-Beta'd. It's got some descriptions of a still-born child, so if that bothers you please don't read. Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa have an implied date, but there isn't much in the way of a romantic connection. I like to think they go out as friends.

Sundays are John’s favorites; he wakes early to the sound of nothing but the birds and wind. Occasionally, there is a soft howl, and he smiles when he hears it this day. When he gets to the top landing of the stairs Stiles’s loud voice is chastising Derek. 

 

“You shouldn’t let them do that. You’re the Alpha, you should have more control.” 

 

“They’re kids, Stiles,” Derek says with a sigh that is more fond than exasperated. “Let them enjoy it while they can, before the hormones kick in and we really have to worry.” 

 

“And if something comes to hurt them, Derek?” It’s the fear that lives in Stiles now; the one he cannot wash off his soul, and it hurts John to hear. 

 

From the sound of Derek’s voice when he says, “I won’t ever let anything like that happen,” John can tell it hurts Derek, too. 

 

He makes his old presence known by groaning loudly as he bumbles down the stairs. “I slept like a rock. Woke to the happy sound of howls,” he winks and Stiles cheers up, but not enough to erase the worry from atop his brow. John’s not sure that will ever go away, but he doesn’t dwell on that thought long when his three grandchildren come barging in through the front door. Their dark hair messy with twigs, leaves, and heavy with the scent of the woods. 

 

“Gramps!” Johnny, the oldest, says as he throws his long lanky arms around John’s middle. “I thought you weren’t coming out last night? Dad said you had a date.” He wrinkles his nose (it’s Stiles’s nose) at that and it pulls a laugh from John’s throat. 

 

“I did. Melissa and I had a lovely time at dinner, but I’d never miss a Sunday with my grandkids.” 

 

That makes them smile, and when Johnny finally lets him go Jase hugs him. His hug is a brief and awkward movement. Jase doesn’t say more than a quiet hello before he’s dashing up the stairs faster than any human nine year old would ever manage. 

 

Stiles sighs as he watches him go, “A man of so many words, that one; I swear we have to pay him to shut up.” Derek snorts, and lifts little Talia into his strong arms when she motions for him to pick her up. John smiles at her when she rests her small head against Derek’s chest. She must be in a snit about something because she turns to bury her face in Derek’s  shirt. It’s a new toddler thing that she does now, or so Stiles has said over the phone more than once. 

 

He looks at Stiles, and nearly startles at the stark hurt on his face as he watches Talia wrap her small arms around Derek’s thick neck. Buried deep in his heart, that dark place where he keeps everything painful quivers and the frail seal threatens to break as he looks upon Stiles’s face. 

  
  


***

Sometimes, when John is alone in his home, he pulls out the whiskey and allows himself to examine all the horrible incidents in his life. It’s when he’s feeling guilty. Which is often when he’s left alone to himself. The department’s shrink (the one they all needed when they kept finding body after body in the woods) asked him once why he feels so guilty. She asked him what he is carrying on his heavy shoulders. 

 

The simple truth is: everything. Every unsolved case. Every domestic which led to a homicide all because a person couldn’t be persuaded to leave. Every child he found in the woods during the Aswang incident, shortly after Stiles left for college. He will always be glad Stiles wasn’t here for that. In the wake of Laura’s death, John isn’t sure Stiles could’ve handled finding child after child mostly devoured in the woods. 

 

Mostly, though, John feels guilty over Claudia and Stiles. Claudia because he wanted, more than anything, to make her better and Stiles--well--for everything. 

 

For the prayers he said each night when he found out Stiles was pregnant. He knelt, with whiskey sour breath and bloodshot eyes, and begged God.  Please, please, please,  he’d chanted,  please make this go away. He’s too young. Derek’s not right for him. This won’t make him happy. 

 

And then, one day, Stiles called him from the vet clinic, voice hoarse as he said, “Dad. I lost the baby.” The bits about Deaton removing it from Stiles, and asking him to come get him from the vet’s later, John has never fully remembered. But he would never forget the look on Stiles’s face when he saw him sitting in the front waiting room that night Deaton removed Laura’s small body. 

 

It was harrowing to see him pale as death, with the light gone from his dark eyes. He didn’t look up when his name was called. Stiles just sat there, staring at nothing when John approached. Deaton waved at John from the door to the examination room, and John went despite the heavy feeling in his gut. 

 

Wrapped in a soft medical blanket was the small half-formed body of his granddaughter. Her skin wasn’t as bloody as he imagined. Deaton, reading his mind, said with a somber tone, “I cleaned her. I couldn’t let you see her like that.” 

 

John swallowed then, and reached out a finger to touch her unbelievably small hand but at the last moment he hesitated and drew back. 

 

“I want to give her a proper burial,” John whispered after many minutes of just looking at her. His voice was hoarse, and his heart was heavy. “Prepare her for that.” 

 

“Stiles said he didn’t want to do that.” 

 

“Well I want to...he doesn’t have to know.” 

 

“Very well,” Deaton said, and stepped away then to give John a moment alone with Laura. He can still recall every visible vein, every tiny formed finger, and many nights her she haunts his dreams.  

  
  


Even now he wishes he’d have never prayed for her to go away. Seeing her made her real, and precious, and a joy he didn’t know he could miss. John takes another sip of his whiskey, wipes at his damp blue eyes, and mumbles an apology beneath his breath. He’s not sure who he’s apologizing to; at first he believes it’s Stiles, then his wife. As the night drags on that apology is for the first born grandchild he no longer has, but when he drags his stumbling self up to bed John believes it is for himself. 

 

His head shrinker told him, when he first confessed to all the guilt, that he needs to learn to forgive himself. 

 

As he falls into bed, John wonders if he’ll ever know peace. 

 

***

 

The next Sunday he spends with the family, Derek cooks out on the grill while Stiles talks Scott’s ear off about Werewolf things. Talia plays in the grass with Scott’s daughter Julia, and John smiles as he watches them chase one another. Jase and Johnny are playing a rather energetic game of tag. Derek growls at them to knock it off when claws come out and a scuffle breaks out between the two. It’s amusing how quickly they both cower down into a submissive stance; Stiles always complains of how unfair it is--the kids know who their Alpha is, they blow off most of Stiles’s attempts to chastise them, but they’d never dream of stepping over that line where Derek is involved. It’s something about their biology, and every time John tells that to Stiles he mutters how he hates biology. 

 

When the steaks are done they all settle around the large outdoor table to eat. Scott lifts his daughter to his lap, and when Stiles goes to do the same Talia ducks out of his hold and runs to Derek. The hurt is visible for all to see, and John feels sorry for his son when Stiles tries to plaster a happy smile on his face. 

 

Derek moves to soothe a hand down Stiles’s arm, but he pulls away from the touch and John doesn’t miss the pained expression that flits across Derek’s face. 

  
***

 

After that, John discovers it is a recurring problem. Talia avoids Stiles’s touch, his affection, his everything. For her there is only Derek, and it’s put a strain on them as well as the members of their house. Johnny’s the one who talks to John about it when he drives out to the persevere to spend an afternoon fishing with his grandsons. 

 

“They are fighting right now,” Jase says with a tilt to his small head, as if he’s listening over the great distance between the pond and the house. When John glances down at Johnny, he notices the frown on his grandson’s face--he looks so much like Stiles did and it hurts to see that face upset for a second time in his life. John claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “It’ll be okay, son, they always fight--that’s how they show they love one another.” 

 

“They never fight like this,” Johnny whispers, almost too low for John to hear. 

 

He frowns, and sits down on the log between his grandson’s. “What are they fighting about?” 

 

“About the grave we ran across with Dad a couple months ago. Talia asked why it smelled like Daddy, and he never really told us...he just kinda got this sad look on his face.” Johnny shrugs, but John can tell it bothers him, too. He’s twelve, and not stupid--he must feel that there is a deeper story. Also like Stiles, Johnny hates secrets.  

  
  


The boys tell him Derek and Stiles are still fighting, so he waves them off to play in their fort at the back of the house. John goes inside, and he hears Derek’s angry voice as he says, “Damn it, Stiles, why are you being this difficult! She’s just confused!” 

 

“She won’t look at me! She won’t come to me! She doesn’t love me! She only loves you!” He screams back, and John feels as weary as he is old. John’s standing where he can see them, but they don’t take notice. He takes in the tense line of Derek’s body and the glistening sheen in Stiles’s eyes. Stiles sobs as he shoves at Derek’s chest, “Why does she love you? Why doesn’t she love me? I carried her, Derek! I carried her! I’ve already lost one daughter, I won’t lose another one to you!” 

 

Derek looks as if he’s been punched in the gut, and John feels for him, especially when Stiles continues. As if a dam has broken and all of those things they never said come pouring out of him. “You weren’t there! I was there, I carried her, I held her, I  loved  her! While you were buried balls fucking deep in Jennifer, I was throwing up in toilets and crying because I was a fucking teenage stereotype!” 

 

“Stiles,” John finally says, and Derek just stands there with his head bowed. He’s the epitome of contrition; it is almost humorous how an Alpha of his magnitude could cow his beta children and packmates into submission with a look or a tone, yet, in the face of Stiles he is the one offering his throat. And Stiles is vicious as he goes for the jugular--he is just like Claudia; he can cut a person to the quick, and he always lashes out when hurt or scared. 

 

“I can’t do this,” Stiles whispers, emotion thick in his throat and welling in his eyes. John doesn’t stop him when he goes and neither does Derek. All they can do is watch and hope that he comes back soon. 

  
***

 

It’s past dark when the boys come back in. Derek’s sitting at the bar in the house’s kitchen with red-rimmed eyes and a pale distraught expression. John sends them upstairs, and tells them not to worry when they ask about their father’s morose scent. He calls Melissa, and she says she’ll be right over. 

 

While they wait John makes coffee, and pushes a steaming cup in Derek’s direction. He takes it with a grateful sound before he lifts it to his mouth to take a sip. The silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable, so John speaks to fill the distance between them. 

 

“You know, when Stiles was little and mad he’d ‘run away’ to these woods. I’d spend hours lookin’ for him and he’d be sitting by the pond, skipping rocks, drawing in the dirt, but mostly I’d find him with his arms folded over his knees, crying.” 

 

Derek looks up at him at that, confused and curious. John nods, somber, and says, “Yeah, he’d just be there crying. Asking God ‘why’ and sometimes he’d let out a sling of sentences so foul if his mother had been alive she’d have ripped his tongue right out of his head.” Derek manages a weak smile and a soft snort. John has to clear his throat before he continues. There is something catching and rough in his tone when he adds, “Sometimes, I think he hoped all the cussin’ would make her come back to him.” He shakes his head and sniffs while he tries to covertly wipe at his old eyes, but he knows Derek can taste the grief. “He’s never quite gotten used to losing the things he loves.” 

 

When Melissa comes in John thanks her and puts a hand on Derek’s tense shoulder. “Come on, son, let’s go get my boy.” 

 

***

 

He’s sitting on the bank of the small pond, long skinny legs pulled up to his chest with equally scrawny arms wrapped around his knees. John doesn’t need heightened senses to tell Stiles is crying. He can hear it, loud through the silence in this part of the woods. Next to the old Willow tree is a small stone grave marker. The name  Laura Ann Hale  carved in the white slab. There is no date. They don’t need one to remember. As long as they live they will never forget. A triskelion is carved at the end of her name, and the old Ernest Hemingway story is written in flowing font beneath it on a banner:  For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.  When he’d commissioned the stone the man said that seemed too cruel. The usual banners talked of God and grace and precious angels, but John wanted whoever stumbled upon this place to know that she was there, Stiles had ordered little shoes and somewhere in his closet John still has them stored, but she never got to breathe outside of the womb. He wants everyone who stumbles upon this little grave to know and to feel a fraction of Stiles’s pain. 

 

John takes a seat beside Stiles, and rests a wrinkled hand upon his shoulder. “Sometimes, it feels like her presence is meant to mock me. The little not-Laura who can’t stand me--because she knows, Dad, she knows that I lost her. That I wasn’t good enough.” Stiles draws in a deep shuddering breath then, and chokes on a sob as John draws Stiles into the warm circle of his arms. 

 

“It’s because she knows, Daddy,” he cries harder against John’s shoulder, “She knows I didn’t do everything I could. Talia knows, and she blames me for Laura. Everyone blames me for Laura.” It’s a guilt Stiles will never escape, John knows too well, but he wishes, more than anything that he could make Stiles see that Stiles was not to blame. 

 

Before he can try, Derek is there, then, pulling Stiles out of John’s arms and crushing him to him. The kiss they share is violent; full of the pent up fear they can never shake. He looks away from them, because some things are too intimate for a father to witness. The way they cling to one another, as if they will drown if they don’t, is definitely one of those private things he’s not privy to. 

 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice is an animalist husk, and when John looks over he can see Derek’s red eyes. “You know this wasn’t you. It was me. It’s always me.” He sounds so broken. Defeated and ruined as he falls to his knees before Stiles; Derek rests his head against Stiles’s stomach. “The universe always finds a way to punish me. It was Jennifer. I went to bed with her, and as punishment Laura was gone the next day.” 

 

Stiles’s long fingers card through Derek’s thick hair, and he says, “It wasn’t you, Derek. It wasn’t me. I know this, but sometimes...sometimes it’s so hard not to compare then to now. I just want my baby to look at me, and not be scared of me.” 

 

John swallows, they’ve all done wrong, or so they all believe. They’ve all been the problem, and for the rest of their lives they will repent while carrying the fear, doubt, and guilt. They are the garments that never come off. 

 

***

 

By the time they make it back to the house, Melissa is standing in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee as she reads the morning paper. “They’re sleeping,” she says without ever looking up, and they thank her when she drops the paper and snatches up her keys. “It’s always a pleasure, boys.” Her smile is genuine even if it is tired. John’s sorry their family drama has kept her, once again, from her sleep.

 

***

 

Sundays are John’s favorite days. 

 

Even now, as they all make their way, as a family, to the small stone marker settling on the bank of a small pond. 

 

Talia squirms and whines when Derek steps closer to it, her arms tight around his neck. He gestures for Johnny and Jase to come to him, and they go with hesitant expressions. When they are gathered closer Derek allows them to read the stone. Johnny’s expression falls immediately, while Jase stares at it with something akin to confusion. 

 

“Is this where Aunt Laura is buried?” Jase asks, clearly curious as to why his aunt would smell of his Daddy. 

 

“No,” Derek whispers, and beside him Stiles drops to his knees. Long fingers trace the words along her grave marker, and Stiles lets out a shuddering breath when he traces the symbol behind her name. “This is your sister’s grave.” And John knows that this is the first time Stiles has seen it.  

 

“Sister?” Johnny looks up at him with a sharp expression. “Since when do we have another sister? Why don’t I remember her?” 

 

“She died a long time before you were born,” Derek says as he rubs a soothing palm along the back of his son’s neck. 

 

Stiles, from his position on the ground, whispers, “She would be nineteen this year.” Then with a smile he says, “I bet she’d have Derek’s hair, my smile, you kids’ eyes, and Gramps’s stubborn attitude.” 

 

“You miss her,” Jase says, eyes knowing and sharp for a nine year old. 

 

“Of course,” Stiles replies with a lightness that fools no one. “I miss all my kids when they aren’t with me.” Jase runs at him, hugs him, and holds on in the same way Stiles clings to John when they hug. It’s the emotional support a parent needs. The reassurance that they haven’t failed enough to ruin that bond. 

 

Johnny joins them, and pats the top of Stiles’s hair with his long fingers. He makes comforting sounds when Stiles lets out a soft sob. Talia steps out from her hiding position behind Derek’s leg and moves cautiously towards Stiles. When she’s close enough she falls into his chest and wraps small arms around his slim neck. Jase smiles at her from his clinging hug on Stiles’s right side and Johnny pats her head with his free hand. She presses a sweet kiss to Stiles’s cheek, and his sobs intensify. 

 

“No cry, Daddy, Talia make it better,” she promises with all the sincerity a toddler can muster. It makes Stiles smile and the boys let his arms go so he can wrap Talia in a loving hold. She nuzzles into his neck, promises to protect him again, and like that the hurt Stiles felt at her rejection is gone. 

***

 

There will always be the little reminders. The gaping hole in their hearts, and John knows there will never be anything to fill them. All they can do is be there for one another, and remind each other that despite all the guilt they feel it really isn’t anyone’s fault. Sometimes bad things happen, and there is no changing it--all they can try for is acceptance. 

 

Love cannot make pain or guilt disappear, but it can help reduce the pain of a raw nerve to a dull, throbbing ache. 

 

And that is the best that he can hope for; the best that any of them can hope to achieve.

 

He kneels alone, at Laura’s grave, and touches her name. “Tell your grandma I’m sorry, and that I love her, and still miss her blinding smile.” A gentle wind ruffles the air around him. Beneath the dry crackle of leaves he hears a phantom howl, and a smile pulls at his mouth, “I promise to keep trying to make it right, and I’m sorry, little Laura, for not realizing, back then, how happy we would’ve been to know you.” 

 

John pulls out her little baby Adidas, and sets them on top of the white slab before he looks up to stare at the bright circle of the full moon. 

 


End file.
